


When I Move, I'm Flailing

by throughadoor



Category: Macdonald Hall - Gordon Korman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughadoor/pseuds/throughadoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall. </i> Boots without Bruno.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Move, I'm Flailing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 11, 2004. Takes place during the events of The War With Mr. Wizzle. Thanks to Pru for the impetus, the line-by-line moral support and the hot beta action. Thanks to Pru for, well, everything, really. Title from Blink 182.

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

Bruno's tie was red with a Swiss dot print, and Boots thought it might feel nubbed against his fingers if he touched it. In ten minutes, all Bruno had managed was a faked hang noose, and he was currently standing in front of the mirror holding the red strip above his head saying, "Give me liberty, or give me death!"

Boots wondered if Bruno had somehow managed a _real_ knot and if the demented ramblings were to blame on lack of oxygen. But it was Bruno, demented ramblings were what you got before breakfast. And after breakfast. And before lunch. And, well.

"What are you carrying on about now?" Boots said.

Bruno let his tie fall back around his neck. "Crazy American thing," he said. "You know, the usual."

"If you hurry up," Boots said, "You can experience the wonder and the glory that is breakfast for the very third time."

"You sure there isn't a meal code, too, now?" Bruno muttered darkly, attempting something with his tie that made it look as though he was treating each end like a pair of shoelaces.

"Well we won't know until we go, will we?"

"I give up!" Bruno announced, throwing his hands up. "This is impossible! What's the point, anyway? Once we get the guys working on it, we'll have the dress code taken care of by dinner time."

Boots stepped behind Bruno and watched their reflections side by side in the mirror. "Well, just in case," he said, "let me do it."

Boots reached around and adjusted Bruno's tie so that one end draped almost down to his belt and looped twice, threaded once, and pulled the whole thing tightly into a fairly passable knot at his collar.

"There," he said, and he ran his hand down the length of Bruno's tie, to smooth it, but also to feel the nub of the fabric under his hand. Bruno didn't say anything, just watched Boots watch their faces in the mirror, and when Bruno realized that he was basically palming Bruno's stomach and standing close enough to smell Bruno's dandruff shampoo, he jumped back like the tie was a red hot poker and not just a piece of red nylon.

There were a couple seconds of absolute silence, and if Boots knew one thing about Bruno, it was silence was akin to death.

"I can't breathe!" Bruno exclaimed, touching the knot at the base of his throat.

"It's awful," agreed Boots in a strained voice.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

Every morning after that, Bruno got dressed up to the point where his tie was hanging loosely around his neck and waited until Boots tied it for him.

They didn't talk about it, it was just one of those things. Like the way Boots had showed up for his room assignment at 306 on their first day at the Hall and he'd introduced himself as Melvin and Bruno had said, "Rough gig, huh?" and Boots agreed that his mother's fondness for his late great uncle was pretty grim and Bruno had said, "No way can my roommate be a Melvin. You're, uh," he'd paused and scratched his head. "Boots! Yeah, Boots! You want the left side of the room or the right?"

Boots had looked at Bruno like he was crazy, but that was that, and to this day he still didn't know where it had come from, because it wasn't like he'd been _wearing_ boots or anything like that. It was just one of those things.

When Boots looked back on the nickname incident and the way he'd watched Bruno unpacking his stuff and chatting away, gaping like Bruno was some kind of lunatic, mostly what he wanted to tell his twelve year old self was _you have no idea_.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

The thing about Walter C. Wizzle, Boots reflected, was that he was an arch enemy tailor-made to drive Bruno Walton crazy. Take away the dress code and the demerits and the 515 and Wizzle was still trying to change the thing nearest and dearest to Bruno's heart: Macdonald Hall. Everyone within a 1000 meter radius of the Hall knew that it was _Bruno's_ school, that he was the one who bagged on it, bossed its students around and made it a better place. Boots almost felt bad for Wizzle--he had no idea what he was up against.

Boots was writing his article for Bruno's anti-Wizzle manifesto while sitting in the back row during English Comp. Mr. Foley was standing at the chalk board droning on about sentence structure, so it wasn't like Boots had anything better to do.

_With all due respect to Mr. Wizzle, he may be the right man, but he is at the wrong school._

Boots trailed off, unsure what to write next. Mark Davies leaned over and said, "You working on your article for the Macdonald Hall We're All Gonna Get Expelled Press?"

Boots nodded warily.

"You gotta reign him in, man," Mark said. "I'm worried that this time he might really take us all down."

Boots shrugged. He wanted to ask why it was his job to reign Bruno in, but he knew it would be a rhetorical question.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

He got the idea when he was taking Mr. Wizzle's psychological tests in Mr. Stratton's class. (This should have been his first clue that it was a dumb idea, said the Bruno voice in Boots' head.) The first question was: _During a discussion, your friend takes a stand that is absolutely incorrect. Do you: (a) vehemently contradict him? (b) gently suggest that he reconsider his viewpoint? or (c) let it pass?_

In his mind, Boots pictured Bruno pounding tables and ruthlessly pursuing his goals. He filled in _(c)_.

The fourth question read: _What trait do you think your friends value most in you: (a) honesty (b) loyalty (c) empathy?_

Boots glanced at Bruno sitting in the desk next to him, filling in his boxes seemingly at random and apparently determined to treat this as just one more opportunity to sabotage Wizzle. Boots filled in _(b)_.

The tenth question read: _It is sometimes necessary to go against a friend's wishes when you have their best interests at heart: (a) agree (b) disagree (c) unsure_.

Boots looked at that question for a long time.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

Boots didn't get much sleep the night after Mr. Wizzle nearly caught him and Bruno with 350 copies of the Macdonald Hall Free Press in their room. Bruno seemed to think that papering the entire campus with anti-Wizzle propaganda was as good as packing Wizzle's bags, but Boots had his doubts.

When Boots thought his parents were going to send him to York Academy, Bruno sold Miss Scrimmage her own lamp, frightened the ugliest man in the world to death, made nice with George Wexford Smythe, he'd risked _everything_. Boots wasn't going to let Bruno get kicked out of the Hall over Wizzle.

Bruno would do the same for Boots, if he was thinking clearly, which was to say that Bruno would do the same for Boots if he wasn't, well, Bruno.

The next morning, Boots woke up so late that he didn't even have to wait around until Bruno was ready with his tie, they were both tearing around the room similarly rushed until they were both holding nearly perfectly still while Boots tied Bruno's tie in front of the mirror.

Bruno sighed. "Let's just not wear them today," he said.

"Bruno, we can't."

"Come on!" Bruno said, "What's Wizzle do? He can't--"

"No."

"But what if we--"

"No, Bruno," Boots said. "Hold still, okay?"

"At least switch ties with me," Bruno huffed. "I've been wearing this red one every day for three weeks, if I have to look at it for one more day, I'll puke."

Boots didn't disagree, but also suspected he spent more time looking at Bruno's tie than he did looking at his own. Still, he stepped back and unknotted his own tie, a sedated navy blue with white stripes and traded it for Bruno's, the Swiss dot texture now completely familiar after so many mornings.

He tucked his own tie under Bruno's collar, feeling the tips of Bruno's hair tickle his fingers, smoothing down the lapels of Bruno's shirt. He probably could have taught Bruno how to do this himself by now, but if Boots was completely honest with himself, threatened-with-Chinese-water-torture honest, he knew that he didn't really want to.

He knew he had to tell Bruno to disband the committee. He looped once and knew he had to do it right this minute, before they left the room and Bruno tried to light tie on fire. He looped twice and took a deep breath, resolving to tell him before he threaded the fat end. He threaded the fat end of the tie through the loop and said, "Look, Bruno--"

But before he could even get started, Bruno said, "God, Boots, you're the master. What the hell would I do without you?" admiring Boots' knot in the mirror. He reached up to tug on his tie; in a fumbling moment his hand was actually over Boots', and it felt warm and dry against Boots' clammy palm.

Boots took a step back. "We should get going," he said, "we're gonna be late to class."

He'd tell Bruno after lunch. He was always more agreeable on a full stomach.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

The next night found Boots similarly sleepless, but this time with all his possessions piled on one side of Bruno's masking tape line. Feeling like an absolute traitor and all-around, world-class shmuck, Boots listed in his head all the ways he'd completely fouled things up when he had told Bruno he was dropped out of the committee:

One, thinking that if he led, Bruno Walton would follow.

Two, believing that Bruno was capable of admitting failure.

Three, believing that Bruno was capable of believing that he could fail.

Four, forgetting that the sanctity of Macdonald Hall always came before Bruno's own sense of self-preservation, if he had any sense of self-preservation at all.

Bruno had given in the silent treatment the entire night, but Boots had to believe that it wouldn't last. The longest they'd managed to go without speaking--to date--was a record breaking thirty-six minutes, while they were studying for a Geography test, because Bruno flat-out refused to believe that Chile was located in South America.

In the other bed, on the other side of the masking tape line of Wizzle War related treachery, Bruno muttered in his sleep, something that sounded like, "don't want to go to Chiquita town."

Boots tried to tell himself it was stupid to feel relieved after having not heard the sound of Bruno's voice for almost ten hours, and finally drifted off to sleep a few minutes later.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

Boots was standing on his side of the line the next morning when he realized Bruno was standing in front of the mirror, staring dumbly at his loosely hanging tie and looking grim.

Boots tried to make eye contact, but if Bruno could feel his eyes burning holes in the back of his head, he didn't say anything. After five minutes of gut-churning silence, Boots stepped over the line, cautiously, as though it was made of something more than masking tape.

Bruno still didn't turn around, but his eyes were now trained like lasers on his shoes. Boots didn't say anything, mostly afraid that Bruno wouldn't say anything back. He tied Bruno's tie neatly, quickly and precisely, and managed not to touch any part of him but the red nylon fabric. When he was finished, Bruno quickly side-stepped him and Boots heard the door slam behind him.

He ate lunch with Chris and Mark and Larry and Pete and Wilber and the rest of the guys. It was a quiet meal, mostly because everyone was concentrating on not glancing over at Bruno, who was eating alone at a table by the window, balancing a sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other, scratching out lines.

Finally, Mark said, "So, uh, anyone write any good lines lately?"

"Shut up, Mark," Larry muttered. He leaned toward Boots. "I just want you to know," he said, "we all think you did the right thing. You can't blame yourself."

Boots gulped. "Who says I'm blaming myself?" he asked.

He dared to look up from his tuna melt and was greeted by a table of sympathetic faces. "Bruno's just being Bruno," Chris said. "He'll come around eventually."

Boots remembered what Bruno had said right after he had erected the masking tape wall. Bruno wasn't the one who had changed, and Boots doubted that Bruno would decide to start any time soon.

"Uh, sure," Boots said, setting down his half-eaten sandwich, not really feeling hungry.

"Are you okay?" Pete pushed.

"Yeah," Boots said quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

So it was like that, then. Boots spent more time studying, and he swam more laps, and he wrote home more often and he ate longer meals and he spent more time lying awake at four in the morning thinking that he'd like to be struck dead by lightening because he was so goddamn miserable.

Every morning he stepped over the masking tape line (which was getting dirty with shoe prints and fuzzy around the edges from the carpet) and tied Bruno's tie for him. Once Boots realized that Bruno wasn't going to stop him, he took his time, made each loop with careful slowness, because standing behind Bruno in the mirror was the only five minutes every day when he felt normal and when he could pretend that everything was fine.

Somehow, Sidney managed to get a bee sting in his _eye_ and he was laid up in the infirmary for three days on account of the fact that he was allergic. Eager to escape the deafening sound of Bruno scratching out lines, Boots went to visit him after dinner.

Sidney's whole left eye had swollen up red and puffy and disgusting, but he said it didn't really hurt that much. "The nurse says she'll release me once the swelling starts to go down," he said.

Boots nodded in a way he hoped seemed supportive, but he was trying to avoid looking at Sidney's eye, so it was a little difficult.

"Hey!" Sidney said. "Bruno brought me my math homework this afternoon. He doesn't look so good."

"Well, uh. You know Bruno."

Boots should have known this was a bad idea. The only thing that was worse than Bruno's stone-faced silent treatment was the way the rest of the guys tiptoed around him like he was some kind of widower.

"Remember that time you and Bruno covered the floor of the gym in Jello?" Sidney said.

"You fell and broke six toes," Boots said, "and Bruno and I had to scrub the entire floor with toothbrushes. It took eight hours and I couldn't stand up straight for a week."

"That was a great prank, though," Sidney said. "Like, remember when Bruno mailed me mashed potatoes?"

"When you were at the hospital in Toronto with the broken collarbone, right?" Boot said.

"Yeah, that was the time I broke my collarbone in the shower, I think," Sidney said. "That was awesome, though, Bruno was the greatest."

"He's not _dead_ , you know," Boots said disgustedly. "He's still Bruno Walton, he's still the guy who wreaked more havoc than a canon ball in a glass room. He can still do all those things. And now he doesn't even have his nagging sidekick to try and talk him out of it."

Sidney frowned. "It's not the same, though," he said. "Without you, Bruno's kind of scary."

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

Boots was fully aware that any idiot, any half-witted moron, any mentally deficient simpleton would have apologized to Bruno after the second day. This was Bruno Walton, the guy who trained himself to be ambidextrous so he could eat lunch and do his fourth period homework at the same time, who'd stayed awake for six days straight trying to make it into the Rankin Book of World Records, who actually wasted two weeks trying to dig a tunnel to Scrimmage's with a garden shovel. Bruno could easily keep up the silent treatment until they were both forty-seven.

The only thing that kept Boots from breaking down and blurting out, "I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry! Let's resurrect the committee and crack some skulls," was that Bruno seemed to be keeping out of trouble. As long as Bruno didn't get himself expelled, Boots could handle Bruno hating him. He didn't have a choice.

Carrying around the knowledge that he was making a noble sacrifice for the greater good helped Boots make it through the third week, but then Bruno and Elmer started using science against Wizzle, whatever that meant, but the possibilities were, frankly, terrifying. The possibility that Bruno would end up both expelled _and_ still hating him made Boots feel sick to his stomach, but he tried to convince himself that there was only so much trouble could get into with _Elmer_.

The next morning, Boots was woken up by something he hadn't heard in room 306 in a very long time: Bruno's maniacal cackling. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Bruno's army of the faithful had doubled overnight.

"What's going on at this hour of the morning?" he said. "Wilbur? Elmer? Where did you guys come from? Bruno, what's going on? You never get up before a quarter to nine."

"I changed my hours when I changed my colleagues," Bruno said and then he quickly shuttled Wilbur and Elmer out of the room.

In his sleepy haze, Boots realized two things: that it was the first thing Bruno had said to him directly since he'd told him to get over on his own side of the room three weeks ago and that Bruno had already been wearing his tie.

The way Boots figured it, there were one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes in every day. If keeping Bruno from getting expelled meant spending one thousand, four hundred and thirty five minutes a day being persona non grata and five minutes a day tying Bruno's tie, Boots could deal. But if Bruno didn't even need him to tie his  
tie anymore, well, that was a different story.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

As usual, things went quickly once Bruno got the ball rolling, and by the end of the week Boots was the one eating his meals alone and the rest of the guys were sitting with Bruno, presumably planning the committee's next move. Because it was a committee again, no doubt about it, and Boots was just a jerk with no friends and no roommate: Bruno was up and out of the room by six-thirty every morning and frequently didn't return until after Boots had gone to sleep every night.

Boots didn't know what the committee was planning, but he was sure that it would result in more trouble, more demerits and more unrelenting misery for everyone involved. Either that or it would result in Wizzle's unceremonious departure and Boots would have to hang himself in the closet, a complete disgrace. He figured the odds were fifty-fifty, at this point in the game.

"You wanna study for the test tonight?" he asked Pete as they were packing up their books after English. Pete was a nightmare to study with because he spent most of his time moaning about how he was going to flunk, but he was also so desperate for a little extra cramming that Boots knew he wouldn't say no.

"Oh, man, I'd love to," Pete said. "And you know I need it, but," he trailed off, and Boots raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Maybe after the committee meeting?" Pete said.

Boots shrugged. "Whatever," he said and quickly moved to leave the classroom.

"Wait!" Pete called. "You should come."

"You're all going to get expelled," Boots warned, but it felt weak.

Pete shrugged. "Probably," he said, "but if everyone else is gonna get expelled, do you really want to be the only guy left?"

"I have to get to math," Boots said hastily, and left.

The truth was Boots wasn't even sure he'd be welcome. He was supposed to be Bruno's roommate, he was supposed to be his best friend, and instead he'd abandoned him, and now Bruno didn't even need him to tie his tie anymore, and he'd found a bunch of people who were actually loyal to be on his committee and he didn't need Boots for anything. Boots suspected this was potentially ridiculous and he was probably acting like a girl, but he didn't want to find out by having Bruno laugh him and his fumbled apology out of room 306 for good.

 

_I will not rest until I kick this turkey out of Macdonald Hall._

Mr. Wizzle signed. "Very well, sir. We'll try it your way. But I firmly believe that Bruno Walton is a bad influence at Macdonald Hall."

"Your opinion has been noted," The Fish replied, and their conversation turned toward some new test Mr. Wizzle and the 515 wanted to inflict upon the students. On the side of the oak door to The Fish's office, Boots' heart was pounding. The message he was supposed to deliver to Mr. Wizzle from Coach Flynn was forgotten, and he hastily left the Faculty Building and started running toward Dormitory 3.

The thing was that Bruno was right to still be mad at him, because Boots had forgotten the most important rules of their friendship. Armed with this realization, Boots burst through the door of room 306, yelling, "Bruno, I've got to talk to you!"

Rule number one: Nothing was more important than preserving the sanctity of Macdonald Hall, no matter what.

"What is it?" Bruno said with studied disinterest.

Rule number two: The most integral part of preserving the sanctity of Macdonald Hall was sticking together and staying roommates.

"Yeah, uh--" Boots stammered. "Uh, what's new?"

"Nothing that would interest you, so if you're finished, I've got a lot to do."

Rule number three: Sometimes it will seem like rule number two conflicts with rule number one. This will always prove to be incorrect, no matter what.

Before he realized what he was saying, and before he could stop himself, Boots said the one thing that was even better than apologizing and basically amounted to the same thing. "I -- I want to join your committee."

Bruno grinned wide enough to split his face, and Boots felt the lead weight that had been lounging around like a couch potato in his stomach for the last month disappear. Bruno got up off his bed and started to peel away the masking tape, and as though it was almost an afterthought, said, "About ninety of us are meeting in the woods tonight," just like it was nothing, no big thing. As far as Bruno was concerned, everything was back to normal.

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

At dinner, Bruno claimed The Committee (when he talked about it now, it was clear it was The Committee in all caps) was willing to move heaven and earth to send Wizzle packing, and Boots just smiled and nodded, happy to feel the deluge of Bruno's words rush over him like a rain storm after a month-long drought.

Boots should have known that there was no such thing as hyperbole when it came to Bruno Walton. That night in the woods The Committee proved that, with the help of Elmer Drimsdale's earthquake machine, it was able and willing to move the earth under Wizzle's feet, and Boots was certain that heaven couldn't be far behind.

Bruno and Boots stumbled back to Dormitory 3 just after two am. Boots had never felt so giddy in the face of certain expulsion. They tiptoed past Mr. Fudge's door and into the newly reunited room 306. They started to change out of their clothes into their pajamas, and Boots got caught watching Bruno unknot his tie.

"I, uh, I figured out how to do it myself," Bruno said in answer to Boots' unasked question.

"Well, yeah," Boots said, "I figured." In reality, Boots had obsessed for days, imagining that Bruno was getting Elmer to tie his tie for him. Which was a completely horrifying thought, although Boots wasn't quite sure why.

"Hey," Bruno said, walking over to where Boots was standing by his bureau. "My technique sucks. You did it better."

It wasn't like they were a couple of girls who sat around braiding each others' hair all the time, but Boots didn't realize how much he'd missed Bruno from the other side of the masking tape line until he was standing within arms length. Boots reached out and unknotted Bruno's tie with one hand. He put his other hand on Bruno's shoulder, so when he pulled Bruno's tie loose and handed it back to him, it was easy for Bruno to pull him into a hug.

After living the guy for four years, Boots knew that Bruno wasn't adverse to a hug between friends at the end of the school year, but this was different. Boots wanted to say that he'd worried that Bruno was never going to forgive him and that he'd never talk to him again and that he'd been miserable when they were fighting, but Boots wasn't really good with words, so he hung on in a way that went far beyond "have a good summer, see you in the fall."

The weirdest part was how weird it _wasn't_ when Bruno twisted to one side, leaned in and kissed him.

A UFO that turned out to be a hot air balloon with a missing ambassador's son was weird.

Being under investigation by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for being a terrorist organization was weird.

Raising $25,000 for a pool with a little help from a teenaged financial giant was weird.

Kissing Bruno was just kissing Bruno, and so Boots stopped thinking about all the things they'd done together that had been weirder than this and just did this, just kissed Bruno back.

Bruno pulled back and then there was a brief shuffling that ended with Boots pressed up against the wall and Bruno tugging on the skinny end of his tie. Bruno was about as skilled at untying ties as he was at tying them, which gave Boots' brain enough time to start processing in complete sentences again and he said, "Bruno, what are you, what is--"

Well, maybe not _complete_ sentences, then.

Bruno looked up from the knot at Boots' throat and tipped his head in. His mouth was wet and warm against Boots', but before turning the rub of their lips into an actual kiss he said, "No so much with the thinking, hmm?"

"But you're, and I'm--" Boots sputtered, and he pressed his palms against the wall so he wouldn't lose his balance, but the wall felt slippery like they'd pranked themselves with Jello, which was how Boots' legs felt, and also the mess of grey matter between his ears.

"Well," Bruno said, kissing him quick and hard like a kiss could be punctuation, "no talking, at least," and again, "and try and think quietly," and again, "I'm doing something here," and again, and Boots realized that only an idiot would be wasting time doing anything else besides surging towards Bruno and making the next kiss a long ellipsis that only trailed off completely when they both had to come up for air.

And then they were on Boots' bed, somehow, the same way the guy agreed to raise a little money for a pool and ended up lying in the flatbed of Miss Scrimmage's truck for six hours, the same way that everything happened to Boots when Bruno was around. Boots was trying to push his sock and shoe off with the heel of his other foot, and it was the kind of thing that might have been easier if he rolled out from under Bruno and stopped trying to map Bruno's back with his hands and check his tonsils with his tongue, but none of those things really seemed possible at the moment.

"I was miserable when we were fighting," Boots tried to say, because it had seemed important to say, before, before Bruno was twisting fingers in Boots' belt loops and they were wound so close together that they kept knocking knees. But Boots was trying to confess his sins and mouth the line of Bruno's shoulder at the same time, so it probably didn't come out sounding like much.

Bruno was fumbling with the button's on Boots' stupid shirt, but he looked up a little bit (in this position, lying together like this, he didn't so much look up as he bumped his nose against the hollow of Boots' throat) and said, "Think of this as Operation Shut Up part two, okay?"

The way it ended up was that Bruno was sort of straddling Boots' thigh with one hand resting inside his shirt against his stomach and the other hand bracing himself against the bed with his palm somewhere near Boots' ear. Mostly Boots laid there, and thrust helplessly into the crease created by the angle of their bodies.

The part that Boots would try to forget was that they didn't make it to the part where they presumably would have taken their pants off, and that Bruno was licking along the arch of Boots' eyebrow when Boots came.

The sensation of being wet and sticky inside his pants is one that Boots was pretty used to, living with Bruno in a room the size of a shoebox, but this was the first time it had ever happened with Bruno stretched out on top of him, making his own frantic movements, grabbing at handfuls of mattress, slipping down so that it was easy for Boots to reach out and take Bruno's hand and bring it toward him so he could kiss the inside of Bruno's palm.

Two things happened in that moment: Bruno lost his precarious balance completely, collapsing against Boots' chest like a gust of wind and Bruno groaned low in his throat, thrust against Boots' thigh and came.

Eventually Bruno rolled off of him, but between the wall and the regulation single bed, there wasn't really anywhere for him to go, so he ended up twisted and half-draped over Boots' side with one leg tossed between Boots', and that was when Boots realized that Bruno still had one shoe on.

"Little quick out of the gate, eh?" Bruno said, toeing off the shoe and kicking it down to the floor with the others.

"I thought you were never going to talk to me again!" Boots blurted out, finally, because he'd been so fucking _terrified_ that even looking down to see Bruno's arm thrown across his stomach and the stain of Bruno's come on his pants felt like a dull roar in comparison, because at least Bruno wasn't going to wake up in the morning hating him. Hopefully.

"Please," Bruno said, waving his hand dismissively.

Boots tried to shift in a position that resembles something close to comfort without dislodging Bruno. "You were going to stay mad at me until we were forty-seven," he mumbled.

Bruno tugged at Boots' arm so that he curled it around Bruno's neck. He said, "I stopped being mad at you after, like, twenty minutes."

"Then why--" Boots didn't bother finishing his question, though, because Bruno shot him a look that clearly said _have you met me?_ and Boots had. He really, really had.

After a minute or two of both silence and stillness--two things that Bruno abhorred, particularly in combination--Bruno leaned in and bit the edge of Boots' earlobe. It felt electric and weird; Boots liked it and it made him nervous.

"What are you doing?"

"Um, nothing."

"Do it again."

 

_I will fully obey all the rules of Macdonald Hall._

The next morning was a disaster, because Elmer stopped by at seven to ceremoniously set off the earthquake machine a couple times and Bruno was still sleeping in Boots' bed with his pants sagging off his hips and one shoe on. Boots managed to shove Bruno into the washroom before he let Elmer in, and when Bruno came back out with his face wet, clothes looking like he'd both had sex and slept in them, holding his tie in one hand, Elmer said, "I've been meaning to demonstrate a method that should solve your problem."

He took Bruno's tie, tied it around his own neck, loosened the knot, removed it and handed it back to Bruno. "This knot should preserve for multiple wearings," he said, doing his part to make the world a better place and semi-ruin Boots' life.

"Um, thanks, Elm," Bruno said, accepting the tie.

They set off a couple minor quakes for Wizzle's enjoyment, and then Boots quickly shuttled Elmer out the door and said they'd see him at the Operation Shut-Up strategy meeting at breakfast.

Once the door closed behind Elmer, Boots made a bee line for the wash room, and threw himself into the shower before he could think about what had happened the night before and what he was washing off.

After he got out of the shower, he stood in front of the sink, practicing what he hoped was a calm and blank expression. "It was really late," he told his pale face and dripping wet hair. "Yeah, friends, absolutely," he said, and then, "let's just pretend it never happened." When he could do it without his mouth wavering, he decided it was safe to leave the washroom, his towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

Bruno had changed into fresh clothes and was absorbed with trying to locate something under his bed, but whether it was his belt or his heterosexuality, Boots had no idea. He dressed quickly, toeing on his shoes and knotting his tie in one fumbling motion. He turned around and said, "We should get to breakfast, the guys'll be--"

But then he stopped, because Bruno was standing by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, fully dressed except that his tie was hanging loose and unknotted around his neck.

"You ready?" Bruno asked. "We should get going."

Boots opened his mouth but no sound came out, and he imagined he looked like a guppy. So much for his composed expression.

"Why did you," he started, but Bruno raised his eyebrows, like he was daring Boots to find something unusual about the fact that Bruno had untied the knot that had the endorsement of science so he could have Boots re-do it in a clumsy four quarter.

So Boots tied Bruno's tie. But instead of standing behind him in front of the mirror, he stood in front of Bruno, and put his hands behind Bruno's neck. He'd always done it the other way, because that was easier, like he was doing it to himself. Looking straight into Bruno's eyes instead of a glass reflection, fingers fumbling at the base of Bruno's throat, it was more difficult, but better, too, which pretty much summed up Bruno, if Boots really thought about it.

Boots tightened the knot and smoothed the tie, his hand following a line from Bruno's collar to his stomach. He wondered how he ever could have done this without thinking about sex.

"We should get going," he said, and it was the third time either of them had said so in five minutes, but they were still standing there, Boots' hand on Bruno's stomach. Boots moved around Bruno toward the door, but Bruno caught him by the wrist.

"Hey," Bruno said, and Boots tried to brace himself for whatever Bruno would say next, but instead Bruno kissed him. He'd made it close enough to the door that he could reach out and put one hand against the door frame for balance, and the only places they were touching were Bruno's hand on Boots' wrist and the clash of their mouths. Bruno's mouth tasted like toothpaste.

Bruno pulled away first, gulping breath, and said, "So, we should get going," his words half-swallowed by nervous laughter.

"Yeah," Boots said. "Okay."

They sat down with plates of pancakes at the table with the rest of the guys who had been recruited for Operation Shut-Up. As the office assistant, Larry was the key ingredient, and Boots knew that Mark, Wilbur, Sidney and Pete were mostly there to provide mumbled support while Bruno convinced Larry that the world was crumbling around them. Boots almost felt sorry for the guy, he didn't have a chance.

"Uh-oh," Sidney said, having spilled syrup across the table.

Sitting next to him, Boots was already prepared with an extra napkin and started sopping up the sticky mess.

"Thanks, Boots," Sidney said, and then he added, "I'm really glad you and Bruno are back together."

Boots' eyes widened, and Sidney seemed to realize he'd been as clumsy with his words as he had with the maple syrup. "Uh, uh," he said, "you know what I meant."

Boots grinned, deciding he wasn't even going to try and answer that one. Across the table, Bruno was lecturing Larry on the importance of putting the sanctity of the Hall before all things, and out of the corner of his eye, Boots could see that Bruno was grinning, too.


End file.
